At Lady Molly's - Anthony Powell [60]
‘I doubt if there is any champagne left, m’lord.’
‘Oh, I’m sure there is, Smith, if you go and look,’ said Susan. ‘You see it is to celebrate my engagement, Smith. I’m going to get married.’
Another twitch passed quickly, almost like a flash of lightning, over Smith’s face. I had by no means taken a fancy to him, either here or at the Jeavonses’, but it was impossible not to feel some sympathy for his predicament: forced at short notice to adapt himself to the whims of his different employers; for it was unlikely that his Thrubworth routine was anything like that at the Jeavonses’.
‘Very pleased to hear the news, m’lady,’ he said. ‘Wish you the best of luck. I expect it will be Lady Isobel’s turn soon.’
These felicitations were handsome on Smith’s part, although Isobel, in spite of being several years younger than her sister, evidently had no wish for comparison between them to be drawn in a manner which made her, by representing, as it were, those girls not yet engaged, seem to come out second best. However, if Smith hoped by drawing attention to engagements in general to dispose of the question of champagne, he was disappointed.
‘Anyway, Smith, do go and have a look,’ said Isobel. ‘My throat is absolutely parched.’
Erridge might have no wish to drink champagne, even if available, but he had also clearly decided that things had gone too far for the idea to be abandoned without loss of face on his own part. Smith, too, must finally have realised that, for he now set down the coffee tray and abandoned the room in full retreat, moving like a man without either enthusiasm or hope.
‘Smith doesn’t seem to get any soberer,’ said Susan, when he had shut the door.
‘As a matter of fact, Smith hasn’t had one of his real bouts for a long time,’ said Erridge.
He spoke reprovingly.
‘So drink is Smith’s trouble, is it?’ said Quiggin, with great geniality. ‘You never told me that. I often thought he might be one over the eight. That explains a lot.’
‘Smith sometimes takes a glass too much,’ said Erridge, shortly, perhaps beginning to notice, and resent, the change in Quiggin’s manner since the arrival of the girls. ‘I usually pretend not to notice. It must be an awful job to be a butler anyway. I don’t really approve of having indoor men-servants, but it is hard to run a house this size without them, even when you live, like me, in only a small part of it. I can’t get rid of the place, because it is entailed—so there it is.’
He sighed. There was rather an awkward pause. Erridge was perhaps getting cross. It was possible that the entail was not a popular subject in the family.
‘What sort of luck will he have in the cellar?’ asked Isobel. ‘I must say champagne is just what I need.’
‘I really don’t know,’ said Erridge. ‘As I told you, I hardly drink anything myself.’
‘Do you keep it locked?’ asked Susan.
Erridge coloured a little.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I like trusting people, Susan.’
Susan showed no disposition to accept this observation as a snub, although her brother was obviously displeased by her flippancy. It was natural that anyone should be annoyed whose evening had been so radically altered by force of circumstance. He had been looking forward to some hours of discussing plans for the magazine, discussion which my own presence would not have hindered. A third, and unconcerned, party might even have made Quiggin more tractable, for a certain amount of patron-protégé conflict clearly took place between them. Now, the arrival of his sisters had transformed the room into